Et in Arcadia Ego
by chaletian
Summary: The air is calm, the scents rich and alien and beautiful, but the sky is the wrong colour; the moons the wrong number; and Spock says, “You cannot help him.” Spock and Bones on an away mission.


**Et in Arcadia Ego**

**by Liss Webster**

They're on a planet. Hot by Earth standards. Temperate by Vulcan. It has three moons, and a purple fruit that grows in such masses it weighs down the branches of the trees. They are swept low, almost touching the ground, the lower fruit covered in the reddish dust from the ground. There's the faintest tang of sulphur in the air; the geology of the planet is unstable. It's hot and dusty and the air is close, and Leonard McCoy is aware of sweat beading along his hairline and sliding down his uniform collar as he struggles against the arms holding him back.

"Dammit, man, let me help him!"

The village elder stares at him, silently, impassively. He has men – guards, soldiers, whoever; McCoy doesn't care. They're holding swords; he still doesn't care.

A quick wind threads through the gathered crowd, bringing with it the scent of sulphur and ripe, ripe fruit.

On the ground a man writhes, but his movements are growing sluggish. Sulphur and fruit are joined by a metallic tang. The earth stains redder.

"_Let me help him_!"

It's easy to help. McCoy can see the familiar steps running through his head. Pressure to stop the bleeding. Cleansing to stop infection. Wrapping to stop reopening. He wouldn't even need to break the Prime Directive. But Spock won't let go.

The junior Science officer stands next to them. Her face is scared and she has blood on her skirt. The Security officer – Henderson? Henley? He has a sister, McCoy knows, and had an aortic valve repair as a baby, but he can't remember his name – stands next to her, blood on his hands.

"We must leave, Doctor," says Spock, quietly and urgently. His hands are tight on McCoy's upper arms; he doesn't let go.

"Your man fought ours and won," says the elder. "You leave now. We will not harm you."

"Doctor," says Spock, and McCoy tries and tries again to be free.

"But I can help him," he says, and now he's pleading. "Spock, he doesn't need to die. For God's sake, let me!"

"They will not brook interference," says Spock, and McCoy sees the soldiers with swords ready. They're watching him, their eyes dark and wary. The man on the ground falls still, and Henderson's face tightens.

The air is calm, the scents rich and alien and beautiful, but the sky is the wrong colour; the moons the wrong number, and Spock says, "You cannot help him."

oOo

His name's Handley. He didn't want to kill anyone; it wasn't why he joined Starfleet. He knew it was possible. He'll cope. McCoy offers what comfort he can, but he knows his skill lies in problems with the physical, not the mental. He offers a place to talk, and alcohol to wash down the words, and he thinks that helps.

oOo

The door chimes and Spock walks into Sickbay, stiff and correct, hands behind his back.

"Doctor," he says.

"Commander," says McCoy, and busies himself with an inventory.

"I believe you blame me for that man's death," says Spock, and McCoy can't help but grin, just for an instant, because you can't say Spock beats around the bush.

"I could have saved him," he says instead. "Hell, Spock, _you_ could have saved him, or either of the others."

"This is correct," agrees Spock.

"But they'd've killed us, right? Left us out there to bleed to death."

"I believe so, yes."

"I don't want to die on an alien planet," says McCoy, thinking about the wrong sky and the wrong moons and the wrong smell. "I want to go in Georgia. You ever been to Georgia, Spock?"

"I have not, Doctor,"

McCoy closes his eyes, and smells the blossom in the air and feels the warmth on his face. "Beautiful place," he says. "I couldn't save him. You were right."

"The fact that I am right," says Spock, "does not make the man's death any more acceptable."

"No," says McCoy. "But, hell, we can't save everyone, much as people like Jim'd like to try. It's arrogant to think we can."

"I believe…" says Spock, and hesitates. "I believe it is worth the effort, Doctor. And I believe you think likewise." He withdraws his hands from behind his back. He's holding a collecting flask filled with a clear liquid. "I acquired this from Lieutenant Scott. My research suggests that such an offering would be welcome. I trust this is the case?"

McCoy grins for real, and reaches out for the moonshine. "God_damn_, Spock, I didn't think you had it in you!" His gaze narrows suddenly, suspiciously. "Hey, did someone sterilize this? You any idea the kind of germs accumulate in this sort of equipment?"

One Vulcan eyebrow rises. "Given my understanding regarding the concentration of alcohol, I highly doubt there will be a problem. Now, if you will excuse me, I have duties to which I should attend."

McCoy flaps a hand. "Oh, you run right along." Spock heads for the door, only pausing in his stride for a second as McCoy says softly, "I wish we coulda saved him."

oOo

On other planets, with other skies and other moons and other smells, McCoy saves some, and loses others, and thinks that Spock was right: win or lose, it is worth the effort to try.

FIN


End file.
